Less Lonely
by ladyeyre
Summary: "I just think he's very lonely," she'd said. But how did she know? OotP One-Shot.


Author's Note: J.K. Rowling owns the people, places, and things. I just like to make up conversations.

Less Lonely

The House had taken a particular dislike to Hermione from the moment she'd stepped inside. She'd been briefed that such a thing might happen by Mr. Weasley when he'd come to pick her up from her parents' house in the early part of July. After all, the Blacks had not been fond of Muggles or Muggle-borns, and everything was already hostile to the Weasleys themselves. There was no reason to expect anything different. She had hoped that Kreacher would warm up to her, eventually, with her relentless compassion, but he'd maintained his blatant antipathy to everything about her, from her bushy hair, to her generous spirit, to her shockingly well-behaved cat.

The war on the house was hard on her; hard on everyone, sure. But in the evenings, Fred and George disappeared to work on whatever it was they were doing, and Ron and Ginny went off to play Exploding Snap or chess or some other noisy, aggressive game. Hermione didn't know how they had the energy. After battling magical mildew and strange household pests, being called dozens of new, foul names and particularly targeted by objects that seemed to know she was a Muggle-born, all she wanted was peace and quiet, dinner and a few hours with a book that wouldn't try to burn her eyes out.

She'd sit alone in any darkened room, reading by wandlight, or writing letters. Short, consoling, and empty of information to Harry. Lengthy, inquisitive, avoiding anything that may sound like a declaration of devotion, but still unavoidably friendly to Viktor Krum. Dutiful and vague to her parents, always asking about news and never giving any in return. Often, she would look up to find Sirius in the room with her, sometimes splayed across a couch with his arm over his eyes, sometimes watching her as she read or wrote with her customary concentration.

"Is everything alright?" she asked the first time. "Not really," he'd responded, unmoving. "Do you mind if I sit with you?" "Not at all," she'd said. So he did, he just sat, breathing as quietly as he could, listening to the turning of her pages, the scratching of her quill, her soft, unconscious humming as she thought.

"Who are you writing to today?" he'd asked her once. "My parents. " "What do you write them about?" She'd been almost as surprised at the second question as at the first. "Oh, er, mostly that I'm doing fine and asking them what's going on with them. I don't want them to worry…" "Do they know about Voldemort?" he'd continued, almost to himself. "No," she said, "They have a hard enough time with me being part of a completely different world without worrying about, well, world war and mass destruction and all that." "A different world," he'd repeated, musingly. He'd turned his head to look at her, without lifting it from the armrest of the threadbare velvet sofa. "They really love you, don't they." He'd said it softly, but there was a hint of something lost still audible in the words. It was not a question. "Yes," she'd whispered back. He'd looked at her a moment longer and then turned back to gaze at the ceiling. She'd watched until it became clear that there were no more questions and then turned back to her letter.

It had been nearly a week since their quiet conversation when Sirius walked in to the dimly lit parlor, two mugs of tea in his elegant hands. "If you'd like," he'd said, placing one on the end table at Hermione's elbow, as he took a seat on a chaise across from her. He'd brought his own activity with him today, sheaves of papers from his father's writing desk. "Mind if I light the lamps? The eyes aren't what they used to be…" he almost smiled. She smiled back, "Not at all," and they sat in amiable silence, the quiet thuds of their mugs on their respective tables punctuating the noises of their more literary pursuits.

"How does it feel, when you go back to your parents?" Sirius asked after half an hour of rustling papers. Hermione sat quietly for a moment, slightly frowning, deep in thought. "It's strange, I suppose. They understand so little of my life now. They don't understand what I study in school, but they're proud that I do well at it. They don't really understand the attitude that Pure-Blood wizards have about, well, me, because I'm so incomprehensible to them that all they see sometimes is my magic. They don't understand that magic isn't enough to everybody. And because I can't use my ability in their world, they don't really see how useful it is and how independent I am. And it's hard, being back with them, because my old classmates from primary school are still around, but we were never close and there's no catching up; I can't really tell them about my life now. Mostly, when I'm there, I feel like I have no friends at all.

"Of course, sometimes it's just as hard here. Plus the added difficulty of trying to protect them from things they don't know about. After all, if they knew some of what we were facing, what would they do? Try to stop me from being magical? Or better yet, my Muggle parents try to protect me from the Death Eaters? If it weren't for Harry and Ron, and the rest of you, where would I be then?" She laughed sardonically at the thought. "Locked alone in my room at my parents' house, hoping that memorizing every spell ever written would be enough to save me. if I were lucky. Come to think of it, I'd probably just have been killed by that troll first year. Ha. Did Harry ever tell you about that?" "I can't say that he did," Sirius replied, gazing thoughtfully at his godson's best friend. "It was the night the three of us actually became friends," she began. "I'd been content being as swotty and perfect as humanly possible up til that night…"

"So I guess that was the first time I'd ever really made friends," she'd finished shyly. "It sounds as though you've earned them, Hermione," he smirked at her, but reached across the space between them, taking her hand. "That's what really makes a home, isn't it?" he said, "The people who know you best, and love you anyway?" She looked at her hand in his and then at the hopeful, almost desperate look on his face. "I'd never thought of it that way before," she murmured.

She raised her eyes and smiled gently, "Poor Harry, still stuck with those awful Muggles." Sirius' hand unclasped hers, moving restlessly back to his father's papers as he sighed, "Harry. Maybe Dumbledore will let him come soon. I miss him."

They each looked at their papers, waiting quietly until they knew there was nothing more to wait for. Then, they resumed their various studies, the companionable silence once more intact between them.


End file.
